


Miscalculations

by Fluencca



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:12:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter sets out in search of Neal, post S6. He finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I grappled with this for over a year and a half, mostly because I tried to make sense of the truly horrid thing Neal did at the end of the series. This is my attempt at making things right, more-or-less within the canonical information we have.
> 
> Some text shenanigans in chapter 4 were corrected. For what it's worth, I blame Kate.

Peter felt his heart smile the whole ride home. The relief seemed to bypass his thinking mind entirely. His only thoughts were _oh, my God_ and _I can’t believe it_ , without really being able to formulate in words what it was he couldn’t grasp.

Neal… He _had_ planned everything, he was alright, he was free, he was… Peter laughed a little and tried to wrap his mind around it.

He started calling El from the car, decided against it, and then decided to call Diana, and changed his mind again. This was finally news he was happy to share, and other than the birth of his son, there had been scarce-little of that in the last year.

Yet something stopped him. Part of him relished having found out, but underneath that part his agent-mind was working again. As with everything Neal-related, Peter preferred to gauge the situation himself, first, before involving the authorities. Well, the _other_ authorities. Peter smiled again. How quickly old habits returned.

~*~

Peter took the rest of the day off, and spent it flirting with online airfare comparisons. He had no idea where to start looking for him, except that everything he knew about the man told him to begin in Paris. So he also Googled the Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées, the Louvre, and some fashion boutiques. No high-profile diamond heists jumped out at him, but the images of Paris at night, of new exhibitions, and scantily clad, heavily made-up women made him realize that was as good a place as any to begin hunting for Neal.

Peter realized he’d made up his mind, and spent the afternoon practicing how he’d ask Elizabeth’s permission.

~*~

“Daddy? Are you home?” El’s voice rang out from downstairs, and the baby echoed her tone in gibberish.

“I’m up here, I’ll be right down,” Peter called back, and shoved his bag behind the bed. He stopped in front of the mirror on his way out of the bedroom, and tried to wear a confident face. “Just give her the facts, she’ll understand.” He exhaled in panic and went to meet her downstairs.

“I saw your car, but it seemed odd you’d be home so early, I thought maybe Jones picked you up this morning, or something,” El said, settling the baby in the playpen and turning to kiss Peter hello.

“Hon, what’s the matter?” She extended a hand to check his forehead, then his cheek. “You look so pale! Are you feeling alright?”

Peter tried to smile, but it was suddenly hard. He had no idea where to start. “I’m fine, it’s just, we have to talk.” El looked even more panicked at that, so he forced himself to truly smile, and led her to the couch.

“Really, everything’s okay, but let’s sit. You know that Bordeaux we got last night? It reminded me of him.”

El looked immediately sympathetic. Peter knew she’d despaired of encouraging him to talk about… all of it, and for the longest time, he hadn’t. Now he continued. “It made me think of him and Kate, and how that bottle meant ‘goodbye’ for them, which made me think of him and that last day and… You know.”

Peter found he couldn’t look into her eyes are he told this next part. He didn’t know why, but he expected to see anger or judgment there. “So I went back through the box of his personal effects, the stuff that was given me in the hospital, and there was this key, and I realized I might know what it opens, because we, that is, Jones and I had been there before, and we didn’t know why he was there, so I went, and inside were all these things, and makeup, a chart, and a newspaper.”

El took his hand, gently. “Hon, you’re not making any sense. Where did you go? And what was inside? And what does this have to do with Neal? Not you, babe,” she added with a broad smile.

“I think he’s alive.”

El’s hand shot to her mouth, and the air between then stood still. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “No. You can’t mean that. After all this time…?” Her voice trailed off and she began to sob into her hands. The baby looked from Peter to her, and back to Peter, and began to cry, as well. Peter went to pick up his son, soothing him as he came back to the couch.

“It’s okay, Mommy’s okay, she’s just surprised,” he repeated for a few minutes, while they both calmed down. Finally, Elizabeth spoke.

“Do you know where he is?” she asked, wiping her eyes and sniffling.

“No. I mean…” He shook his head. “It’s Caffrey. The first place he’d stop would be Paris, but I can’t be sure after all this time. I can’t even be sure this isn’t wishful thinking. But my gut tells me he’s alive, El, and that I can find him.”

El nodded, and looked around the room, and then steeling herself, fixed her glance on Peter again. “When’s your flight?”

“I didn’t book one, yet. Not before I spoke to you. I can’t leave you alone with the baby, not when I don’t even know how long it might take me to track him down. Ne—Caffrey doesn’t want to be found by just anyone, and it may take more than a couple of days to track him down. He’s good at disappearing.” Peter relished the present tense that rolled off his tongue.

“Peter Burke, the longer you wait to book that ticket the more expensive it gets. You should have booked it as soon as you found out.” She took the baby back from Peter, and stood up.  

“The last conversation I had with Neal… I told him to keep _you_ safe, and he promised he would. I didn’t even tell him to keep safe, himself.” Her voice broke, and she shut her eyes against the tears. It didn’t help. “I thought I couldn’t feel worse than I did that day, but, hon, he’s been out there all this time, thinking I didn’t care whether or not he was safe?” Elizabeth wiped at her eyes with a gentle hand, smiling a sad smile at her son. She was still looking at him as she spoke, but her words were directed at Peter. 

“No one should have to feel like that. You go find him, agent Burke. You bring him home.”

~*~

By 9 pm Peter was on a direct flight to Paris. He had decided not to share the purpose of his trip with anyone else. He didn’t think he could handle breaking everyone’s heart a second time if it turned out to be a false lead, or worse, false hope.

He sometimes wondered if making that round of announcements wasn’t in some ways worse than realizing that Neal was gone, for good, that he’d failed him, again, for the last time. Neal was his responsibility, under his protection, and seeing his cold, still, dea— _seemingly_ dead body lying there in that morgue… It should have been him. It was all he could do to keep his emotions in check, be the adult, and be the agent. Be in charge. But then he’d had to tell Jones, and convince him that this time it was real, this time it wasn’t sharks or a shady coroner, he had seen the body. And then he had to tell Diana, who cried with him. Again, he was forced to tell her he was sure, that there was no doubt; again his mind produced the one image he wanted most to forget, pale blue skin that had once been fair, the biggest presence he had ever felt in a room suddenly skinny and fragile, reduced to the dimensions of a small metallic table in poor lighting. Diana began planning her move later that week.

He’d gone over to June’s, as well; but all she said was an icy “I see.” He’d seen her again at the funeral, but didn’t speak to her. He kept mostly to the shadows, at Mozzie’s request, so as not to scare off all the others who came to pay their last respects to Neal. June was one of the few people who spoke. She began by saying how Neal was like a son to her, how she knew he could be trusted the minute she met him, how he had the biggest heart of anyone she had known, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for those he cared about… Peter stood there envying her honesty.

But worst of all, he’d had to go home and tell Elizabeth, and hold her as she cried and gasped for breath, and repeating to herself that _nonononoitcan’tbepleaseyou’rewrong,no._ For long minutes he held her and held back his own tears, but with every sob of El’s his own tears came nearer the surface. He couldn’t answer her questions, he couldn’t even formulate his own grief.

“I’m sorry, hon. I’m sorry,” he whispered over her head. He didn’t know what made him say it, but he suddenly realized it was true. “Oh, God, El, I’m so sorry,” he said, and the flood gates opened. He now clung to her, his breath mixing with agonized wrangled sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t keep him safe, I just… I was supposed to protect him, I—“

Peter shook his head. He didn’t want to be thinking about that. He reached into his carry-on and pulled out his newspaper, folded it open to the article he had been reading, and stared out the window for the next several hours, lost in thought.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he landed Peter was _livid._ Everything he and El and been through, the FBI crew, everything _Mozzie_ had been through, it couldn’t be justified. It was another, and the worst, example of Caffrey playing a game, not thinking through how it might affect others. And this time he wasn’t going to reward him for it.

That is, if he could find him.

He had given some thought on where to start, but for a city that’s an eighth the size of New York, it was huge. He was out of the airport by noon and checked into his hotel ( _motel, Peter, Motel)_ about an hour after that, but he was left with a huge _now what?_

He called home to check in, but that provided little inspiration on where to begin the search. Elizabeth had apparently followed a similar line of thought to his, and also her excitement had matured into wariness. “Peter, when you find him, ask him why. Okay?”

He promised he would, and vowed that Caffrey would pay for what he’d done to El, in the very least.

~*~

After three days in the most foul city in the world— the whole place smelled like the subway in the winter— Peter was beginning to doubt himself. He hadn’t misread that container, he was certain Caffrey was alive, but either he wasn’t in Paris or it would be impossible to find him.

He’d armed himself with two photos. One of the pair of them in tuxes, and one of the mugshot Caffrey hated so much. He showed the one to art dealers and street hustlers, and the other to his few law-enforcement contacts. None of them had seen Caffrey, or Halden, or Tabernacle, or even Moreau.

Peter had even asked about any suspicious heists or thefts in the area, but nothing had been taken that was still unaccounted for ( _Whatever I did, I have proof I didn’t do it_ ). He searched the fancy hotels, the fine restaurants, and even a few high-end tailors, but none of them offered any leads.

At the end of the third day Peter was feeling lonely, and frustrated, and even angrier than when he’d started this search. He sat outside a small pub, beer in hand. He could find him, he really could. It’s what he did. Peter flipped open the file he’d compiled since his arrival in Paris. It told him nothing ( _roadblocks and wanted posters?_ ). He knew where Caffrey wasn’t, but that was about it. So he’d stayed away from the hotels and fine dining institutes. Fine. But Neal in Paris? It was a dream come true. He’d often talk about how it was the first place he’d visit when he was free. And if not for the clothes or the wine… Peter smiled and shook his head. How could he have been so blind? He sat back and relaxed, taking in the views of the city.

~*~

Early the next morning, he asked the receptionist at the motel to help him set an appointment with the director of the Louvre, a monsieur Jean-Paul Michel. The one thing Neal couldn’t possibly resist in Paris was the art. It was his weakness, worse than women, worse than even Kate had ever been. He was sure he’d be able to get a sighting of him on the security cameras, which would at least let him know if he was still in the city. And maybe someone at the museum would even remember him. It was a long shot, but Peter had few alternatives.

Peter arrived early for his meeting. He was directed to Michel’s assistant; apparently, the man himself was too important to greet his visitors. Peter knocked on the door, which was half ajar. The office seemed empty

“Um, hello?” he called, hovering at the entrance to the office, and looking back to the hall. He didn’t want to seem rude and be caught poking around an unoccupied office, but it was almost 11 and he didn’t want to be late, either.

“Un moment s'il vous plait," a voice called out, and before Peter could grasp that it sounded vaguely familiar, the assistant came out from behind the door, carrying files to his desk and turning to face Peter.

“I’m here for a meeting with Jean-Lu…” Peter’s voice trailed off.

He stared.

Their eyes locked. Time stood still.

Peter felt the blood either drain from his face or rush to it, he couldn’t be sure. His head felt dizzy and heavy at the same time.

“You should cancel that meeting.”

~*~

Neal wasn’t sure he was seeing straight.

“Peter?” He broke into an incredulous smile. He released a breath he’d been holding for a year. “What are you doing here?” He shook his head; he couldn’t really believe what he was seeing.

But Peter wasn’t smiling back. He stood for another moment staring at Neal, his eyes boring holes into his own. Neal’s smile faltered, and then vanished as Peter slammed the office door without turning around, without breaking eye-contact with Neal. When he did look away, it was to shake his head in disgust, one hand up to his mouth as though he was trying to hold back on being physically ill at the sight of Neal.

When he finally looked at back at Neal he was perfectly still, his eyes on fire.

“How could you do this?” He hissed. Neal could see the anger uncoil; Peter began shaking his head again, his hands rose to his waist, and he was vibrating with rage. “How the hell could you _do this?”_

Neal was taken aback. He had thought about this moment when Peter found him. He thought it would be before he even made it out of New York, but that hadn’t happened. Then he thought it would be within days of his arrival in Paris, but the days turned into weeks and there was no indication that Peter was coming, or even looking. Thoughts became daydreams, became fantasy; it had been a year, and it was obvious Peter wasn’t planning on finding him. When he sent the bottle of Bordeaux it was a goodbye, a small coded message in respect of their shared past. He was ready to let Peter go.

Neal felt stupid for being surprised. He really should have known. It was so classically _Peter_ to ignore what Neal needed for a full year, and then show up at his own convenience hurling accusations.

“Do what?” He spat back at Peter, his own anger rising. “Send you a bottle of wine? Well, I’m sorry. I guess I always was a bit too sentimental for my own good. I wanted to tell you goodbye before I left Paris. If receiving a bottle of wine from me so offends you, I don’t know why you bothered coming.”

He should have known. He should have known. Neal returned his attention to the files on his desk. He adopted a dismisssive tone, the one which always let Peter know he was no longer welcome. “If that’s all you came here to say, I really do have to get back to—“

Peter erupted. The walls of the room seemed to shake.

“ _I BURIED YOU, NEAL_!” His voice was booming and raw, his face red. He was shouting, louder than Neal had ever heard him. “I fucking buried you! I...” He shook his head, casting about for the right words. “I buried you! For a year, I had your blood on my hands, you think that washes off with a bottle of wine? You were my responsibility, my partner, my _friend_ , and I was in charge of the op that got you _killed_.” Peter advanced on the desk, his face contorted in rage he wasn’t even trying to control. It radiated off of him. Neal took a small step back.

“You _died._ Do you know what that did to Mozzie? June, Diana, Jones, El? How could you do that to all of them?”

Neal suddenly felt like he was trapped in the wrong conversation, in the wrong argument. He’d played the script of this meeting in his mind a thousand times, a thousand different ways. This wasn’t one of the scenarios.

He lifted his hands in what he hoped was a reconciliatory gesture. “What? Peter, I don’t think—“

 It was the wrong thing to say. Peter knocked the visitor’s chair over, and it crashed into the wall of the narrow office. “You never think!” Peter yelled. “You do what’s right for YOU at the moment, and you never stop to think how it might affect others. Not once did you consider…”

Peter bit his lower lip. “You’re a son of a bitch. How could you do that to us?”

Before Neal could respond, the door to the office opened. A security guard stood at the doorway. He looked from where Peter stood, to the upended chair, to where Neal stood behind his desk. He stepped into the room.

“Tout va bien ici, Monsieur Baroque?”

Neal was about to tell him that everything was fine, it was just an argument between friends, but Peter apparently had said his piece.

“Tout bien,” Peter said in the worst French accent Neal had ever heard. It made him cringe a little. “I was just leaving.” He cast Neal one final, disgusted look, and pushed past the guard.


	3. Chapter 3

“You found him? Tell me everything! How did he look? What did you say? What did _he_ say?” El’s excited voice didn’t quite match her lip movements, but the Skype connection was good enough that Peter could tell how happy she was at the news.

“How long did you guys talk? And did you work out a way for him to come home?” El hoisted the baby higher on her hip and away from the screen. Peter could only imagine the smeary finger prints he had already left there.

“We didn’t get quite that far, Hon.” Peter said. “In fact, we didn’t get very far at all. I barely got past asking him how he could disappear like that, and he started with his Caffrey-patented excuses, and…” He trailed off.

“And what? Peter, honey, did you give him a chance to explain?” Elizabeth untangled the baby’s fingers from her hair as she spoke. “No pulling, you know that. Satch, what are you doing? Do you need to go out?”

“Honey, I gave him the chance he deserved.” In retrospect, it’s possible he hadn’t handled the meeting quite as well as he should have.

El looked past the computer, to where Peter assumed Satchmo was whining at the door. Elizabeth bent back down so she was in view of the camera. Hon, I’m gonna go let him out. I’ll be right back. Talk to Neelio, he misses you. And Hon, use his name!”

Before Peter could say anything, El planted the baby in the playpen, kissed the top of his head, and then swiveled the laptop to face him. “Talk to daddy!” She called cheerfully, and then left the frame.

Peter stared at his son. The baby stared back, finger deep in his mouth.

Peter spoke first. “You know what, he actually looked fine. He grew a full beard, if you can imagine that. He was working in the offices of the Director at the Louvre, and they seemed to know he was there. I probably need to go back there and make sure nothing’s missing. Though I’m sure he has proof of not doing whatever it is he did. God, I missed him so much during this last year, you know that. We talked about it all those late nights we used to pull, back when you were colicky. But somehow, when I got there, seeing him… Nothing but venom came out. I was so angry.” Peter paused, and looked out at the darkness slowly spreading over the City of Light.

The baby uttered a long stream of nonsense, then lost interest in the conversation and sat down. He began to poke at the bottom of the playpen.

“You think I was too harsh on him? Well, your mom probably agrees. She told me to ask him why, and I swear, it’s the only question I didn’t seem to hurl at him.”

Another grunt from the baby, this one noncommittal.

“You’re right, I guess I should go back and see him tomorrow. Not that they’ll let me in, again, after the scene I made. Hey, son, what are you doing there?”

As he watched, the baby managed to pull back the base of the playpen. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it was with practiced ease. There was cloth underneath the base, as well as the metal supports that gave the thing structure. Peter couldn’t fathom why the baby would want to play with that, but it was amusing to watch.

Until the baby slipped through a tear in the fabric, and out of the playpen. Peter’s jaw dropped. How long and he been able to do that? He watched in fascination as the baby slid out from beneath the playpen, crawled over to the dog’s bowl, and grabbed a handful of kibble.

Peter watched in horror as the hand moved to his mouth.

“No! Um, mommy? Elizabeth? Honey!” Peter called out with increasing urgency. At the sound of his voice, the baby knew he was busted. Still clutching what he could of the dog food, he raced back towards the playpen, and crawled his way back in. Just as El came into view he pushed back at the base, trying to get it back into place.

“Peter? What is it?”

But Peter was laughing uncontrollably. “Holy crap, Look at what the baby has in his hand.”

Elizabeth walked over, saw what remained of the contraband kibble, and immediately pried it out of the baby’s hand. “How on earth did he get this?”

“We need a new pack’n’play, honey,” Peter said, laughing. “God, our boy is aptly named. And he gave me a pretty good perspective on things. Can I call you back later? There’s something I gotta do.”

~*~

Peter spent the next few hours trying to find out anything he could about a Mister Baroque, but with little luck. The evening turned into night, and places were closing. He’d have to try his luck at the museum again in the morning. If Neal was still there, that is. He’d said something about leaving Paris.

Peter closed his computer in resignation. He let the television drone on in French, trying to work up the courage to call El and tell her about his epic failure with Neal earlier today.

How he’d kill for a beer.

A knock sounded at the door.

He knew who it was before he opened it. Sure enough, there he was, standing a little too far into the hall than he normally might, as though afraid to be too familiar. He held up a six-pack.

“Can I come in? I think we need to talk.”


	4. Chapter 4

Neal was half-afraid Peter would begin throwing furniture again. After he’d left him in his office, it had taken about 15 minutes to explain to the security guards about how emotional Americans get over measly things like a hand on a wife’s derriere after a few glasses of wine. That explanation would not have worked anywhere else in the world; but Neal found that there was very little you couldn’t pin on an American in France.

After sharing a laugh with the guards, hoping they’d forget the incident (or at least not share it with his boss), Neal returned to his office and quietly shut and locked the door. Before he had managed a ‘hello’, Peter had already been flinging insults. It actually reminded Neal of the old days… But Peter had never been that angry. Not even about Keller, not about Hagen, not ever. The fight replayed in his head all afternoon. Neal tried to find his fault, the point where he should have said something different, but for some reason the conversation was derailed before it even started. Peter was obviously angry that he had faked his death, but… He shouldn’t be. That Peter wanted nothing to do with him he had come to accept, but he was done accepting blame for things that weren’t his fault. He grabbed his jacket and left the office in a hurry. He had an FBI agent to track down.

And now Peter was just looking at him. It was the penetrating glance that always made Neal a little uncomfortable. He looked away, and then forced himself to look back.

“Can I come in?” He asked with a shrug. “I think we need to talk.”

Peter moved aside, and waved him in; but then he moved to the far side of the little table in the center of the room, as though he couldn’t put enough distance between him and Neal.

Neal followed his lead, and remained on his side of the table. He placed the beer between them, and took a seat.

Peter dragged a chair further away from the table, and sat down as well.

They faced each other in silence for a long minute, Peter looking resolutely at Neal, and Neal taking deep breaths as his glance flitted around the room, always landing on Peter for a brief moment before looking away again. Then, they both spoke together.

“Caffrey you—“

“Peter, I—“

They both stopped. Neal smiled, then forced himself to stop. He didn’t think Peter was in the mood for levity.

Peter looked at him with a raised eyebrow and gestured archly for him to speak. Neal could tell he was being humored; Peter had no interest in hearing him out. But he knew that if he could just get a foot in the door, Peter would _listen,_ and that’s what he needed. So he took a deep breath and made eye-contact. That much Peter was too proud to deny him.

“Peter, I know you’re angry, and I think you have every right to be—“

Peter’s eyes shot wide open, in shock. “You think? Well, the Caffrey-version of an apology won’t cut it this time—“

Neal interrupted him. He was beginning to remember what their last year together had been like. Why it had seemed like such a good idea to sever the ties. “Will you just let me explain? Please?” He asked.

Peter shook his head in a gesture Neal knew to be angry, but then he squared his jaw and motioned, half-sarcastically, for Neal to continue.

“Peter, when you came to my office today… I realized that it sounded like you thought I was dead. You weren’t supposed to think that, not—“

Peter’s head snapped in Neal’s direction. “Never sell a con you wouldn’t buy yourself, _you_ taught me that,” Peter said. He looked at Neal, incredulous. “I wasn’t supposed to think you were dead? What was I supposed to think, as I stood over your dead body?”

“Peter…” Neal stopped, gathering his thoughts. He looked down, took a deep breath, and restarted. “Peter, I needed the world to believe I was dead, but I never intended to fool you, not for more than a few minutes.”

Peter was shaking his head again, and Neal spoke faster, his voice almost panicky with the need for Peter to understand. “The dose I took was supposed to wear off by the time you arrived at the morgue. And in case it didn’t—Peter, I did everything I could think of to send you looking for me. Didn’t you notice I had all those IDs on me? I made sure in advance they’d be handed to you. Weren’t they?”

Peter’s eyes flew, for a brief moment, to the file on the bed, and then quickly back to his hands, folded between his knees. Neal caught it.

“You have them here, don’t you? Look at them.”

“What difference does it make now?” Peter asked. “I’m here, and I found you without—“

“You need to believe that I didn’t mean for it to go on this long.” Neal looked down, and smiled a small smile, to himself. “You don’t _need_ to, but for some reason I want you to. Please, Peter.”

Peter reached over for the file, without breaking eye contact with Neal. On his part, Neal wore a carefully bland look, trying to hide his desperation that Peter listen to him a little bit longer.

Undoing the rubber-band that bound the various IDs together, Peter glanced at them one at a time. “Minnesota driver’s license, Delaware resident’s card, Texas… _Passport card_? Caffrey, no one has been able to forge these, yet, how on earth did you match the sea—“

Neal heard the compliment, and caught the genuine look of awe on Peter’s face. It pained him to let it slide in order to make his point. “Forget the types of IDs, look at the names.”

“A Finn d’Menow, an Iman Isfine, Moise Liveson…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he continued flipping through the cards. He repeated some of the names to himself, sometimes in an undertone, and sometimes with only his lips soundlessly forming the words.

Neal could see that Peter understood. He pressed on, just a bit further.

“Peter, if you had run a search on any of those names you’d have found them booked into various hotels around the City, for weeks after we took down the Panthers. I stayed around for weeks, waiting for you.”

Peter deflated a little, but leaned further back into his chair. Neal couldn’t tell if he was relaxing or distancing himself further.

When Peter spoke, it was resigned, and disappointed. “Did you really think I’d look? At the cards, I mean? Have you forgotten what it was like at the office after Segal was shot?”

Here he waited. Neal did remember, very well. And more importantly, he remembered how badly Peter had taken it. How guilty he had felt, how much to blame.

“Peter, this was different.”

“Yeah.” Peter rubbed his mouth, not sure how to continue. Whether to continue. But then he remembered the talking-to he’d received from El, and the quiet admonitions from the baby, and he finally decided to have the conversation their friendship—or what he’d thought had been their friendship— deserved.

“Yeah, Caffrey, this was different. This was _you._ Not a random newly assigned agent. It was my partner and my best friend, my _family_ , who had been killed on an op that I sanctioned. You were there because I allowed it, and I couldn’t keep you safe. You were my legal and moral responsibility, and I failed you. What does it matter that I _wasn’t supposed_ to believe you? I did, for a year. And I’m not sure what’s worse. Believing I killed you, or you letting me believe that.”

“Peter,” Caffrey began, but Peter interrupted him. He had one more question to ask.

“Why? Why would you do that to me? I know we had a rough year, with my murder charges and Hagen and Rebecca, but… you had your new deal in place, in a contract Mozzie wrote and the DOJ signed off on, and I… I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t.” Peter locked eyes with Caffrey, pushing down emotions on how thankful he was to be doing so, and asked him again. “Why?”

 Caffrey, on his part, looked surprised at the question, but apparently not for the reasons Peter thought. He answered as though he’d been asked what Michelangelo was famous for.

“The _Panthers_ , Peter.”

Peter pulled back, in surprise. His eyebrows pushed together, like when he was solving a crossword puzzle. He had expected something about freedom, about being lied to by the system, maybe even some personal accusations about his own attitude towards Caffrey. Not this.

“What do you mean?”

“Woodford. Keller warned me he didn’t like to be double-crossed, and that when he was, he made people pay. Not just the double-crosser, but the people they cared about. Their family. Their friends.”

“You ran on _Keller’s_ word?”

Neal had looked down at the table when he spoke, not exactly daring to make eye-contact with Peter. It felt weird admitting he was protecting him, especially in light of their fight earlier in the day. “No, I looked into it myself. I broke into his office.” He looked up again. He needed to be believed. He needed Peter to _understand_.

“He had files on everyone. June, the Harvard Squad, everyone. Gym schedules, home security combinations. Pictures of Theo’s daycare. El’s sonogram.”

Peter moved in slow motion. His eyebrows rose as he moved forward in his seat, one arm moving to lean across the table, his fingers spreading slowly as though to get a better grip of the table. His head tilted sideways, his eyes widened with incredulity. When he spoke, it was like a whip that snapped a rubber band.

“ _What?_ What _the hell do you mean_ , he had El’s sonogram? How the hell did he get it? Damnit, you should have told me!” He stopped for a moment, and sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, _again_. I can’t believe you endangered my wife, _again._ This isn’t a game! The FBI should have been the first call you made, not the goddamned airline! _”_

“She wasn’t in danger, not until I double-crossed Woodford. He trusted me, implicitly. And then… You told me once I could be either a con, or a man, but not both. Well, last year I finally made a choice.

“A man,” Neal said, just as Peter shook his head in defeated disappointment and said, “of course you chose the con.”

Silence spread. Neal took a deep breath, and blinked several times, rapidly. He shook his head minutely.

“You think this was a con? You think I left all those breadcrumbs for a con? You think I flew out on my _Nick-fucking-Halden_ passport so I could pull a Gracie Finch on you? And for what reward?” He spread his hands, indicating his surroundings, hoping to distract Peter from more rapid blinking. “Doing menial work far from everyone I ever knew, anyone who ever cared about me, the only place where I had an identity that wasn’t curated? Well screw you. My first call _was_ to the FBI, and this disappearing act was Bruce’s idea. Well, at least sanctioned by him. And you were supposed to know, Peter. He promised me that if you didn’t figure out by Christmas, he’d tell you. He arranged for passage to Paris, and round-the-clock protection for everyone in Woodford’s files.” Neal wanted to gesticulate again, but now his voice was betraying him, too. “I left to protect everyone. To protect _you_. It was the only way. But you weren’t supposed to think I was dead. Everything was carefully laid out and calculated. You shoul—”

Peter didn’t wait for him to repeat himself. He had heard enough. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted to be convinced, until he was. He rose from his place across the table, midsentence, and walked around it in a few short steps. Caffrey had stopped talking and rose. Peter thought it was so that he wouldn’t be at further disadvantage. He already had more redness to his eyes then he’d likely have wanted.

Peter stepped closer to him, close enough to put an arm on the back of his neck, and apply the slightest of pressures. He dipped his own head closer, and said with a huff, as though it was pulled out of him, “You miscalculated, Neal.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. After that single moment of taking in what Peter said, what he had finally called him, the exasperated and forgiving and slightly accusatory tone, he threw his arms around Peter, clutching at the back of his t-shirt, once again blinking through dampness.

Peter hugged him back. It wasn’t a manly mandatory-pat-on-back. Keeping one hand on the back of Neal’s neck, he used the other to draw Neal closer, and whispered, “It’s damned good to see you, Neal. I… We missed you.”

It was Neal who signaled the end of the hug. He pulled away from Peter, running fingers through his hair to compose himself.

“Um, I can use a drink. Beer?”

“We definitely earned a cold one,” Peter said, walking back to his side of the table. When he sat down, though, he dragged his chair closer to the table, closing the distance between them. Neal did the same.

Neal served Peter first, and was about to open a can for himself when Peter almost shouted, “No! Wait, don’t!”

Neal drew back his hand, a questioning look on his face. “Am I not allowed to have beer?”

“I have something for you. It is Paris, after all, and I bought you some wine. In a fit of madness before I became pissed.”

Neal looked excited. “I wish I had seen you sooner, now. Where are there glasses? It’s a shame to drink proper vintage from hotel room tumblers, but I’ve had to rough it out the last year. I’m sure I’ve done worse.” He looked expectedly to Peter, who was fishing something out of his bag.

“Don’t worry, that’s what’s amazing. You don’t need a glass for…” He turned around and presented Neal with… What should have been some kind of desert-warfare canteen.

Neal looked up at Peter. All humor bled from his face. “What is that?” His words were clipped, his tone like a parent’s who caught a teenager with a cigarette.

“Palmer Vineyard’s chardonnay. It’s a fine year.”

“It’s in a bag.”

“It’s wine, and it’s a gift.”

“It’s in a bag, Peter. I wouldn’t serve chocolate milk like that!”

“Luckily you’re not serving it. Drink it. Don’t be rude, you still owe me a lot of explanations.”

Peter extended the bag to Neal, pleased to see his long-suffering sigh. It was comforting to know that he could still get a perverse pleasure from goading Neal with life’s less-than-fine items of luxury.

Neal gave Peter a dirty look, but as he went to get a glass Peter saw his shoulders sag, just for a moment, with relief. He composed himself before he turned around again, and sat back down to pour himself a glass of wine. He winced as he tasted it.

“This should be illegal. In France, it probably is. Ugh, does El know you spent money on this?”

“No, but I’ll be sure to surprise her on our next date-night with a festive bag of wine. Answers, Neal. Why would Bruce hide this from me? And why wouldn’t he loop me in, to begin with?”

Neal lowered his glass, and leaned forward with determination, like they were discussing a case. “He said it would only put you in danger to loop you in, since you weren’t targeted as FBI, but as a personal friend. As for hiding it from you… Peter, Bruce didn’t handle the details on his own. I mean, he was involved in the whole process, but he had a senior Art Crimes agent handle all communications with me since I faked my death.” He paused, letting the implication of fault sink in.  “A senior agent out of DC.”

Peter filled in the blanks before Neal had finished speaking. Neal nodded, as though he knew Peter had come to the correct conclusion.

“Kramer.” Peter shook his head, still unable to believe how his old friend and mentor became so… _corrupt,_ his mind wanted to supply, but Peter wasn’t ready to go there. _Blinded_ he supplanted instead, and decided it would do for now.

“He is so afraid of us working together that he wouldn’t even tell me you weren’t dead.” Peter closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The ramifications of this… He shook his head, as though trying to undo the thought that just formed. It didn’t work. He looked up at the ceiling, defeated by the relentlessness of his churning mind.

“So I guess he also neglected to tell _you_ that Woodford died in prison six months ago?” It was Peter’s turn to watch the implications paint themselves across Neal’s face, in quick succession. His face somehow shifted from surprise, to outrage, to relief without anything visibly shifting, except for the slightest tilt of his head. “Are you _sure_? How?”

“Neal, we’re the FBI. I’m sure. Two days after his sentencing he lands in prison, where his first meal was apparently 35 year old cold-war cans of mystery meat. The mystery turned out to be listeria, and about 15 inmates got very sick. He and two others died.” Peter shook his head, and gave a small, humorless chuckle. “You know, I used to feel bad about him? Like the system should have treated him better. Now that I know about what he was planning… I seem not to care as much.”

Neal nodded. “I can only imagine.” He looked somber for a moment, and Peter was sure he was already thinking through the ramifications of Woodford’s death. But then he brightened, and said, “My turn. How’s fatherhood?”

Peter hadn’t expected that. He’d been asked it before, of course, casually in the office and by extended family. But he usually brushed it off with some cliché. He was surprised by how easily a truthful response came to him. He smiled, despite himself.

“It’s wonderful. I sometimes can’t really comprehend that we made a little human being. But I swear, from the minute El found out she was pregnant, it’s constant worry. I thought it would be better after the baby was born, but it only got worse. Even two minutes after I check on the little guy, I think _maybe now something’s wrong._ It’s endless.” Peter paused, and looked down at his empty beer can. “But it’s worth it. Every time he smiles, I can say, _I put that good in the world._ ”

“Big change from your carefree life before, huh?”

Peter looked up at Neal. “Not really, no.” Silence lingered for a moment between them, and Peter grabbed another beer.

“My turn. That suit costs more that my flight over here. Do I need to worry how you’re getting the money for your patented Caffrey lifestyle?”

 

If Neal was offended by the insinuation, he didn’t show it. Quite the opposite, he sat up and leaned forward, and with a conspiratorial grin asked, “Did you happen to see the Mona Lisa when you were at the Louvre today?”

“No, I went straight in to my meeting. Why?” He dragged out the last word, suspicions already beginning to form. “You know what, don’t answer tha—“

But Neal was too quick for him. “It’s mine.” He sat back, grinning satisfactorily. His excitement was poorly contained.

Peter took an exasperated breath, then held it. Neal never admitted to anything, not even to the bond forgery he was convicted of. He narrowed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

“And where’s the original?” He asked.

Neal was bursting at the seams, and that was all the encouragement he needed. “She’s getting her beauty rest in a darkened restoration lab deep beneath the galleries. Did you know it’s harmful for art to be displayed for prolonged periods of time?”

Peter didn’t even adjust his stare.

“Thousands of visitors come to see her every day, so they couldn’t very well leave her spot blank. Apparently there’s a quiet but affluent market in the world of high-end museums for high-quality facsimiles.” Neal smiled, a proud, genuine smile.

The only other time Peter could remember such a smile was when he’d told Neal that his sentence might be commuted. It was a rare Caffrey smile, one that wasn’t meant for the outside, one that popped up because Neal felt he had done something right and was being rewarded for it, for a change. Peter was happy for him. Until Neal spoke again.

“300,000 euros, just for that piece. Since then I’ve done some illuminated manuscripts, jewelry, other smaller jobs. The Dead Sea scrolls on display are also mine.” Peter was overwhelmed. Not only with the fact that Neal was likely richer than June, but by the fact that he had been right. He had chosen to be a man.

Neal paused, and apparently noted the look on Peter’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m good at what I do. Pierre Baroque has uncredited pieces in almost every major Museum in Europe.”

Peter couldn’t help himself. He felt his head doing a cartoonish double-take. His eyes widened, he opened his mouth, but before he could speak Neal cut him off.

“My turn. What’s his name? You only ever referred to him as _the baby_ , or _little guy_.”

Peter knew it was true. He had insisted on the name, even when El’s mom had put up a fight over naming the baby after someone who’d died young. But all the same, he couldn’t bring himself to say the name more than a handful of times. The memories and the guilt it invoked had been too much.

“Neil,” he said, experimentally. It felt good, and natural, and _his son_. He looked up from another empty beer can, hoping he could convey everything he felt about the subject without having to actually say it.

“We named him Neil.”

Neal’s face didn’t register any… anything. All he said was, “that’s nice. After an uncle, or something?”

Peter shook his head and spread his hands in exasperation, not sure what other words he could use to explain himself.

Neal continued. “It’s just that _I_ certainly don’t know anyone who spells their name N-E-I-L,” he added in a perfectly congenial tone.

Peter knew a con when he saw one. He smiled conspiratorially at Neal. “Okay, tell me how. You saw his birth certificate? You grabbed my phone and looked at text messages from Elizabeth?”

“Peter, your phone is behind you on the bed, and I didn’t even know Woodford was dead. You think I had access to New York birth records from over here? I could hear it, it’s in how you say it. Neil with an _I_ ,” he said, and shuddered theatrically.

“It’s the same name!” Peter exclaimed, but Neal was only shaking his head. “It’s not my fault, El’s mom is superstitious. But it’s not too late to change it, you know. He looks a bit like a Andrew, I always said.”

“No, no… I’ll bear my namesake’s misspelled name with fortitude,” Neal said nobly, but Peter could see he was pleased. There was a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was _blinking_ again. He even reached and took another sip of wine. Which he discreetly spat back into the glass, and reached for one of the remaining beers.

“So does that mean I’m officially a better friend than Jimmy Burger ever was? I noticed you didn’t name anyone after him.”

“Really? You think I’d name my son _James_?”

Neal conceded the point with a smile and a tip of his beer. “But still. Neil. They do say that imitation is the highest form of flattery, so thank you.”

“Oh, yeah, you want to discuss that, _Pierre Baroque?_ ”

Neal’s high spirits dampened at that. “That’s different, _Pierre_ is a common French name, and I needed to blend in, at least on pap—“

Peter interrupted him. “My turn.” He leaned forward in his seat. Their knees were almost touching. He looked at Neal from below, eyes narrowed again, calling forth every bit of intuition and acumen he had to detect possible deception.

“Do you want to come home?”

Neal held his glance. “More than anything, Peter.”

They each sat back, nothing further to say for a few minutes, nothing but furtive glances passing between the two.

It was Neal who broke the silence. He set his beer down, and said, “Peter, before I can return to New York, I need… I need to confess some things. Things I thought I was doing for the right reasons, but…” He looked at his watch. When he spoke again he was unsure, but his voice was tinged with careful hopefulness.

“Immunity till sunrise?”

“We’ll need a lot more beer for me to be able to claim plausible deniability due to inebriation.”

“There’s an all-night pub just down the road. Can I buy you a drink?” He stood up, and buttoned his jacket. “And myself some real wine?” he added under his breath.

“You’re doing well enough for yourself, you can buy me dinner, too.”

Peter grabbed his phone from the bed, checked he had his keys, and ushered Neal out the door.

As they walked the gently glowing Parisian streets, Neal began to talk. He knew he was going to have confess some dark deeds, deeds he wasn’t proud of. He tried his best to make light of the situation in advance. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… Two or three years since my last confession.”

Peter knew was he was trying to do, and he tried to match the slightly sarcastic levity of Neal’s tone. But he didn’t try very hard.

“Tell me of your sins, my son, and all shall be forgiven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: My personal goal was to clear Neal of being a horrible person; this might mean that my writing suffered for it. But I couldn't bring myself to read or write other fics until I got this out. 
> 
> a) This is both Neal's and Peter's story. I deliberately mixed up the PoV, though how well I did it is certainly up for debate. 
> 
> b) I tried to explore Peter's sorrow from the father/son angle, which I believe was made explicit in canon by the creation of Neal (Neil?) Burke. 
> 
> Hope these things come across. 
> 
> As always, comments are more than welcome, including corrections.


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